


Justice and Respite

by Booklover2526



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Savoy, Sleepy Cuddles, Tag to season 1 episode 4, The Good Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Booklover2526/pseuds/Booklover2526
Summary: After Marsac is dead and buried, Aramis reflects on justice and what has occurred over the past few days. Including, his relationship with Athos and Porthos.Athos and Porthos, upon returning to the Garrison after dealing the the Duke of Savoy, find out what happened while they were gone. They also figured out the truth. Later on, they comfort and apologize to Aramis.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère, Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay & Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan, Mostly just mentioned - Relationship, a little bit - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Justice and Respite

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a one shot of an idea that would not leave me alone. Also, I love cuddle fics. This is not connected directly to my series "We are Soldiers, but We are Brothers First". 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys, and that you are all keeping safe and happy! Thank you to everyone who reads, kudos, and comments on this fic!

The candle was burning low, puddles of molten wax surrounding the shrinking pillar. Aramis watched the flame writher and swallowed a mouthful of warmed wine. Serge had been kind enough after he had returned soaking wet from the cemetery to warm some as well as present him with stew and bread. Both of those remained untouched. 

He watched as the shadows in his room danced to the candle’s light, silent as they moved around the room. Porthos had yet to return from whatever he, Athos, and D’Artagnan were doing with themselves this evening. For once, Aramis was grateful to be free of his friend’s presence. Normally, when memories of Savoy actively haunted his thoughts and flickered across his vision frequently without warning, Aramis took great lengths to remain with Porthos and/or with Athos at all times. They knew how to pull him free of the memories, and if they could not manage that, they were willing to offer comfort in the aftermath.

Aramis could not count on them this time. For all his brothers talked about justice, when it had come to getting justice for Aramis and the men that had died that night in Savoy, they had refused to help him. Even when the evidence stacked up against the Captain (oh, the Captain, Aramis’s heart wanted to break), when clearly something had been wrong, they had refused to interfere pass being there as Aramis had questioned the Captain. With the truth plain across the Captain’s face, his eyes dark and stony but not regretful, they had still insisted that he was a good man and that they wouldn’t believe he had anything to do what with happened that day.

They hadn’t even bothered offering comfort. D’Artagnan, new and bright D’Artagnan who Aramis knew would make a great Musketeer one day but not today, had been more help than his friends of years. D’Artagnan with his dark understanding eyes had supported him more in finding out the truth than they had. Even though he had not wanted to believe the Captain was responsible either, D’Artagnan had offered his help up until Athos and Porthos had interfered. 

He had even put himself at odds with Constance for Aramis. A woman that he was very quickly falling in love with, not that Aramis could blame him. She was rather extraordinary.

Aramis threw back the rest of his drink, swallowing down the warm wine in eager mouthfuls. The cup clattered and shook when he slammed it onto the table, and the puddle of wax surrounding the candle wavered too. His chair raked across the wood flooring as Aramis stood up and crossed the cold floors on bare feet. He shivered as the blanket he had had curled over his shoulders sunk to the floor.

It was far too cold despite it being summer.

He flickered through the doors of the little cabinet that he and Porthos shared, letting out a sigh of relief when he found the wine bottle on one of the shelves. It took some wrangling and wiggling of the knife Porthos had left on the chest at the foot of his bed, but Aramis got the cork out and took a swig straight from the bottle. He was starting to feel pleasantly tingly, but whatever warmth the drink offered seemed impossible to find tonight. 

Savoy was in his bones, and the only thing that had ever slightly warmed him up on nights like these was the warmth of another body pressed against his.

He bent down, the room swirling for a moment before his eyes, and grasped the corner of his blanket were it lay in a strung-out heap on the floor. A few more steps and Aramis collapsed onto his bed, tugging and wriggling until the blanket covered his curled-up limbs. His neck whined in a minuet pain as he awkwardly craned it to take another long drink.

The candle’s light was wavering, the wick almost burned through now that the once tall pillar was a lake in the holder. He should get up, light a new one and dispose of the old. Instead, Aramis took another drink. Some wine slipped and dribbled over his bottom lip to roll down his chin and then his neck. It would likely stain the collar of his white linen shirt if he did not address it now or by tomorrow morning at the latest. 

Aramis stayed in bed.

His pillow felt soft under his cheek, cushioning his pounding head. Marsac had certainly not pulled his punch. Just like Aramis had not pulled his when he had hit the Captain twice in the outside corridor of the palace after having it confirmed that he was the one who had given their position away to the Duke. 

The Captain had said he had been misled. 

Aramis did not believe him.

He had worked with his Captain Treville as a Musketeer longer than just about anyone else in the regiment. He had been one of the first in the elite regiment, having met the Captain when he was working as a spy against Spain after his old captain had died and he had been assigned to Treville. Shortly after, the king had placed Treville in charge of creating a new elite regiment that served the king directly. Treville had pulled Aramis from his spy work for his skills with people, the saber, and most importantly his marksmanship.

They had started as a group of ten men plus the Captain. They had grown quickly, but only with the finest who had proven their worth and character. Marsac had been one of the first to join after the initial set. Many of those who died at Savoy had been part of those first groups.

Aramis closed his eyes, gripping the wine bottle tightly until his knuckles hurt. He focused on the pain and his pounding head. Started counting off his breaths.

Years, Aramis had worked under Treville. The man was one of the smartest that he knew. He did not believe that Treville did not have an idea what was going to happen that night when he passed their location off the Duke, especially not when it was the Cardinal and King who ordered it. The Captain knew those two and could sniff out their schemes better than anyone even if he usually put most of the blame on the Cardinal rather than the King. He had a soft spot for the childish man.

The light that had still pressed against his closed eyelids disappeared. Slowly, he cracked them open to peer into the room. The candle had gone out at last, and the room had surrendered to the shadows. He could hear rain pitter-pattering outside. 

The Captain had knowingly sent twenty-two men to a location he knew was compromised. Even if he had not known exactly what would occur in the night, he had known that their location was compromised to a man who had not been a friend of France. He had never tried to warn them. It was only by the grace of God that Aramis and Marsac had survived.

They had both paid the price.

Aramis was haunted by that night and the fuzzy days after when the crows had ripped the cold flesh off the bones of his friends despite Aramis’s best attempts to send them away. His memories had been corroded by the head wound he had received as well as the trauma. He still got migraines that sent him to his knees that doctors attributed to the wound. It took him a month to leave his room once he had recovered, and another month to begin training again. He had Porthos, a new recruit at that point, to thank for even doing that so quickly. He had refused to give up and stop pushing Aramis, demanding that he do his duty and get back out there. For a short while, Aramis had hated him for not leaving him alone, for talking about doing the Musketeer duty even though he was just a recruit. He had grown to love that persistence, that faith in Aramis that seemed fairly unshakeable. He had felt safe.

Marsac, as Aramis had told the Captain as they stood next to his grave, had lost his soul in those woods. He had spent years being everything that he had hated beforehand and had been driven near mad with the desire for revenge. If Aramis had not shot him (oh, how could he had done such a thing?), he was now sure that Marsac would not have lived long. If France did not kill him, he would have done it himself. 

The bottle briefly chattered and almost toppled when he set it on the ground, but luckily it did not spill the remaining half of its contents. Aramis turned away from the empty room, facing the wall his bed pressed against and pulled the blanket up to his nose. He shivered under its weight. 

He could sit up and grab his cloak, bundle into that fabric too. However, it was unlikely to do anything against the cold that had seized his lungs and bones and now shook them. So, he stayed in bed.

A few tears burned over his cheeks and dripped into his ear and onto his pillow. 

Aramis tried not to cry too loudly as he attempted to sleep.

Mud sloshed and sucked at their boots as they walked the empty streets back towards the Garrison. They had taken a small detour to walk D’Artagnan to Constance’s house where they had then been trapped for a few hours as she had fed them tea and had demanded to know everything about Savoy. Given that they had asked her to take in an attempted assassin even after she knew what he was, they had obliged her with what they knew. What happened at the massacre, just exactly who Marsac was, their attempts at questioning the Captain. 

Constance had taken their insistence that it was not the Captain with a sip of tea and little else to comment besides a dark frown. Porthos and Athos had shortly been kicked out into the rain to go back to the Garrison and report to Treville all that had happened with the Duke of Savoy. It was odd that he had not been there for the whole thing, even more so when he had not appeared for the signing of the treaty between Savoy and France. However, the past few days had been a roller coaster of things nearly spiraling out of control only to be reined in at the last second.

“I’m looking forward to some of Serge’s stew. I could smell it cooking earlier before we had to go get Cluzet,” Porthos groaned, staring up at the rainclouds balefully. 

Athos shot him a warm look, the edges of a smirk on his face. “Perhaps if you are lucky, the Captain will let you eat it while we give our report.”

“After earlier?” Porthos scoffed, wiping his hand over his face to clear away some of the rainwater. “I think we will be lucky if we are not assigned to cleaning duties and training for the rest of the week.”

They fell silent, listening to the rain as it collected into puddles for their feet to tread through. The street lanterns only dimly illuminated their surroundings, but the heavy rain kept away anyone who thought to try their luck in attacking or robbing the King’s Musketeers on such a dark night. Porthos cleared his throat.

“Would you stay tonight? I know you are not too happy with Aramis for letting Marsac go and not reporting him, I am too, but…” Porthos stopped, lashing out a boot to send a rock bouncing along the street until it disappeared into the night and rain. 

“Of course, my friend. We will find wherever Aramis stashed Marsac tomorrow and finish sorting that all out then. Even if I disagree with his actions, I will not abandon him in this.” Athos reached out, clasping a hand over Porthos’s shoulder, and giving it a small shake. It did nothing to truly move the bigger man, but it earned him one of Porthos’s wide smiles.

“Thank you, brother.”

They traveled the rest of the way to the Garrison is silence, arms brushing together. They nodded to the guard on duty as they slipped through the doors, and they received one in turn. The Garrison was quiet, and only a few lanterns burned to show the way up the stairs to both the Captain’s quarters and the rooms that Musketeers who lived on base used. The door to the kitchen was open with light spilling out and into the mud. Light also weakly reached out from the Captain’s office up above. 

At Athos’s proffered hand, Porthos took the lead into the kitchen. Serge had a soft spot for both Porthos and Aramis, though he favored Aramis by far. However, between Athos and Porthos, it would be Porthos who would convince Serge to feed them whatever left over stew remained and take it upstairs for their meeting with the Captain. 

Serge was limping through the space, muttering under his breath as he shuffled a bag of flour back to his workstation were several bowls stood. The boy who Serge had employed to help him was gone, likely sent home when the rain had picked up. So now it was just Serge, preparing dough for bread in the morning. The fireplace cackled and popped. 

He turned to them, already creaking open his mouth to bark at them, when he shut it with a snap when he realized who was visiting him. “I thought you were the Captain back down for more wine. Damn Musketeers, nearly giving me a scare, I should scold you just for that. I suppose you are here for your late dinner?” 

He limped across the room, pulling down two bowls and spoons, and thrusting them into their hands. He gestured to where a large pot sat on the ground near the fireplace. “You can dish yourselves up tonight, I got work I’m doing. Lucky you got here before I cleaned that.”

Porthos took both bowls and went to scrap the remains of the stew into them. It wasn’t much, but perhaps Porthos could convince Serge to let them have one of the leftovers loafs of bread he could see wrapped up and placed on a tray to the side. Normally they would serve as a second helping for whoever woke up early enough to pack them into their bag and that desired day-old bread. 

“The Captain is drinking wine at this time?” Athos asked, taking his bowl from Porthos when he came back with a grateful bob of his head. Serge turned and peered at them with squinted blue eyes. 

“You didn’t hear? Marsac returned from whatever rathole he had scurried into and tried to kill the Captain for some reason. Aramis killed him. I thought you two would have been one of the first ones to know?” He began ripping the dough and patting it into the shape of loafs, dipping his hands into the flour occasionally to keep it from sticking.

Porthos sucked in a harsh breath, whipping around to stare at Athos. Blue eyes darted to meet him, wide and startling in their intensity, before they turned to fixate that intensity on Serge. “When did this happen? Where is Aramis?” Athos snapped, gripping his bowl tightly.

“Don’t give me that tone, boy,” Serge gripped, but his eyes were sad. “It happened this afternoon, a bit after you lot ran off to help the Duchess. The Captain was in the armory attending to the stores; I don’t think he heard her come in, and you all left in a hurry. I don’t know exactly what happened, but Marsac somehow snuck in and Aramis found him about to kill the Captain. We heard shots, and by the time some of the younger men found them, Marsac was dead and in Aramis’s arms. The Captain insisted we burry him in the Musketeer graveyard. Since, the Captain has been locked in his office only to come down for wine, and Aramis in his room. I took some stew and wine to him earlier.”

For a moment, Porthos felt as if he could not breath. He did not like Marsac, hadn’t liked the man even in the short while he had known him as a Musketeer. He could not forgive him for leaving Aramis alone in those snowy woods surrounded by the bodies of his brothers and wounded. Porthos knew Athos felt much the same. 

However, he was important to Aramis. Aramis, who despite knowing better than anyone that Marsac was a deserter and who held a bitter anger towards him for it, still cared for Marsac. The man he claimed saved his life despite also leaving him wounded in the cold forest with no help on the way. 

“You boys… You have done great things for him. Aramis. Go report to the Captain and go take care of him. I’ll prepare you a late breakfast in the morning.” Serge added after a moment, his frame shuddering with the long breath he released. A loaf of bread was pulled off the rack and handed to Porthos, who grabbed it with numb fingers. “Off you go.” 

When they stepped back into the rain, Porthos was almost grateful for the cold as it seeped back into his shoulders and over his head and face. His bandana was soaked, his hat was missing, and the chill seemed to restart his lungs. “Fuck,” he groaned. 

“Let us not worry about it right now,” Athos broke in, staring up and at the balcony that connected the Musketeers’ rooms. He turned away, his face stiff, to look at Porthos. “We can go to Aramis as soon as we report to the Captain.” 

Porthos shoved the loaf of bread under one arm, hunches over his bowl with his broad shoulders, and followed behind Athos as he climbed the creaking slick stairs. They left muddy footprints on each one as the thick mud fell off the soles of their boots. It was a short trip, and soon they were standing at the Captain’s door. Athos knocked three times, each hitting with a heavy thud.

Despite the light being on, there was no call to come in, and no footsteps heading in the direction of the door. With a shared glance, Athos knocked again. When no answer came again, Athos reached for his gun with one arm, held his bowl at the ready to throw with the other, and Porthos raised his boot and kicked open the door.

The door slammed open, smacking into the wall, and rattling in its hinges. It is only likely due to the heavy rain that no one came running out of their room to investigate the noise as the two stormed inside with Athos in the lead. They must have made a comical sight, ready to throw bowls of stew, a loaf of bread, and maybe a gunshot. They heard a loud snort from the Captain’s desk.

“What are you two doing? Have you also forgotten your manners today?” The Captain drawled, a cup of wine in one hand as he sat back in his desk chair. 

Porthos glanced at Athos, who shared his look, before they looked back at the Captain. He was dressed down into his linen shirt and trousers, pauldron and leather jerkin hung up on a rung behind him. His pistol and sword hung off his belt which has also been left to droop off another rung. His cheeks had a pink flush across them, normally sharp blue eyes a little hazy as the Captain squinted at them. 

“We have come to give our field report of everything that happened with the Duchess. However, if this is a bad time…” Athos cut himself off, letting the sentence hang in the air in the perfectly posh way of his. Where he sounded both very courteous but also made it clear he was judging the individual it was geared at. Which, Porthos had to admit privately was more than a bit hypocritical of Athos. Two nights before this whole mess started, Porthos knew Aramis had had to drag Athos drunk, stumbling, and swearing back to his lodgings and help him get ready for bed.

The Captain’s lips pinched together, and he gave Athos a dry look. Clearly, Athos’s tone had not gone missed even if the Captain was less than sober. “Give me your report and get out of here,” he growled, setting the cup down to give them his full attention. 

It took them perhaps a quarter of an hour to explain the whole ordeal, beginning with the Duchess riding into the Garrison and ending with the Duke unhappily signing the treaty between Savoy and France. The Captain continued to give them annoyed looks whenever who wasn’t talking spent their time shoving stew into their mouths, but he did not say anything. Whether that was due to him being nice or to keep them from also commenting on the frequent sips of wine he took during their report was unclear. They wrapped up just as they had emptied their bowls and the Captain had emptied his once full cup. 

“We will speak more of this in the morning. Go to bed,” The Captain said, pouring the remains of the wine bottle sitting on his desk into his cup. 

Porthos, eager to leave as by now his wet clothes had fully registered and clung uncomfortably to his body as well as his growing desire to check on Aramis, turned to leave. He had taken but one step when Athos croaked, “What of Marsac?”

There was a low, tense silence. Porthos cringed, glad his face was towards the door so neither could see his expression. He had always admired Athos’s bravery, but it was perhaps more stupidity to question the Captain on the matter after the talking-to and threats of court martial they had received early in the day. Not to mention all that went down afterwards.  
Finally, the Captain spoke, his tone low and dark. “You are both fine Musketeers. But you both must learn to see past your biases. That is all I will say in the matter other than Marsac is dead and gone now.” 

Porthos felt a low, searing warmth in his gut. He whipped around, stomping forward a foot or two as he glowered at the man he called his Captain. “Are you saying that Aramis and Marsac were right? Did you give away their position?” He snarled, clenching the hand not holding his empty bowl in a fist. 

Athos was a statue besides him, rigid and unmoving as he focused all his attention on their captain. For a long couple seconds, Treville just glowered at them, wearing a similar expression as he had earlier in the day. 

What was it, that Aramis had said on the balcony? That his face said it all?

Finally, the Captain looked away. He stared at his cup, mouth turned down and suddenly looking much older than he was. He had a bruise under one eye, though Porthos was not sure how he had missed that earlier. 

“Go,” Treville sighed, seeming to sink further into his chair. “You have beds and friends to return to.”

“Aramis will never get any true justice for what happened there. Those Musketeers will never get the justice they deserve.” Athos turned away, starting towards the door with a single-minded focus to leave. Porthos followed suit, forcing himself to take in big heaving breaths to calm down. 

Just before the door creaked close behind them, they heard the Captain say, “No. But perhaps he will find some relief knowing the truth of why it happened.”  
Porthos hoped so. Aramis deserved that much at least. 

They took one last detour to place their empty bowls in the kitchen. As they climbed the stairs to the barracks, they snagged one of the lanterns to light the way. Porthos felt as if his feet had been shackled with weights, the reality of the pass few days hitting. They stood outside Porthos and Aramis’s shared room, the only sound the rain and their breathing.

“He was right. And we were not there for him. We didn’t believe him.” Porthos whispered, staring at the door he had shared with Aramis since two weeks after he had returned from that mission. He had moved in when they had discovered Aramis slept better and seemed a bit more focused on the present when Porthos was around. Aramis had never felt the need to explain why it was Porthos who made him feel safer, just that he did. Porthos had never moved out. 

Porthos felt as if he had betrayed that now.

“We cannot change our actions, Porthos. However, we can try to make up for them,” Athos whispered back, reaching out and clasping Porthos shoulder. Porthos soaked in the comforting gesture for a long minute before shaking it off by patting Athos on the back. 

They pushed open the door, lantern held aloft to light the room. The room looked similar to how it always did, things fairly neatly put away at Aramis’s instance, their furniture standing where it always did. There were the remains of a melted candle in a holder on their little sitting table, a bowl, an untouched hunk of bread, and a cup besides it. Porthos’s knife that he had left on his chest had been moved, and one of the cabinet’s door was propped open. There was a vaguely circular lump hidden under the blanket on Aramis’s bed, and in the shadows of the lantern’s light they could see the shape of a wine bottle on the floor at his bedside.

Porthos cringed, stepping into the room, and softly closing the door after Athos. Athos quietly crossed the room and moved to set the lantern on the table. “Aramis?” He murmured, tiptoeing as much as a man his size could towards the bed side. “You awake?” 

There was no reply. He could not see the clear details of Aramis’s face in the shadows, but his eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell in a simple rhythm that was only occasionally hijacked when he shivered. Porthos reached down and grabbed the wine bottle, moaning quietly at the fact it was half empty. Aramis was not one to often try to drink away his problems, and besides, it had been a nicer bottle they had split the cost on with the idea that they could share it with Athos and D’Artagnan the next time they played cards at the Garrison. He set the bottle on the table. Turning away, Porthos crept over to his bed and began to remove his weapons and outer clothes.

Athos followed suit, this routine nothing new. Usually, Aramis was awake too and also following suit, but it was just a small difference. Once everything but their linen shirts and underclothes were off, Porthos grabbed the front of his bed while Athos grabbed the end, and they awkwardly lifted it and maneuvered the frame around the room until it lined up with Aramis’s and the mattresses were pressed together. 

“I’m going to go grab an extra blanket from the stores,” Athos muttered, and Porthos nodded.

“I will get him up and get him cuddled in.” 

With that, Athos snuck out of the room. Porthos watched him go, glad that the storeroom was located on the same level so that Athos would not be exposed to the rain again. Grabbing his own blanket, he set it off to the side as he climbed onto the now much bigger bed and gently shook Aramis’s shoulder.

“Aramis, wake up, brother,” He called quietly, bending down so that his breath tickled Aramis’s ear and gently rustled his hair. 

There was a shuttered inhale, and then Aramis was wiggling to turn around and peer at Porthos with sleepy dark eyes. He winced when the light registered, a low whimpering noise spilling out of this throat. Porthos cooed at him, shushing him as he ran a hand through Aramis’s soft hair. 

“Porthos…” He whined, turning away to bury his head back into the pillow. 

“I know, I’m sorry for waking you up. Athos and I thought you might want some company tonight. Can we join you?” 

He watched as Aramis blink blearily a few times, and Porthos kept stroking his hair, gently working out knots when his fingers got caught. While it was fairly routine for them to share a bed with Aramis when the memories of Savoy were too close, or even when Porthos or Athos himself needed comfort (though that usually was just Aramis and Porthos forcing themselves into Athos’s bed because the man could never admit when he needed a little extra company), they always waited to crawl under the covers until Aramis gave permission. Once was enough to learn that doing so without permission would earn them matching black eyes and pain lingering in their nether regions. 

“You said I could deal with this myself,” Aramis murmured, suddenly tense next to Porthos. 

He choked on his spit, sputtering for a moment and suddenly very glad when the bedroom door opened. Athos slipped in through the small crack, two blankets bundled in his arms. Aramis propped himself up onto on arm, studied Athos for a second, before flopping back onto the bed. He kept himself faced away from Porthos though, arms pulled tight against his chest and legs tucked in. Not exactly normal cuddling position for Aramis who liked to drape himself over one of their chests and force the other to snuggle his free side. 

Athos raised one eyebrow. Porthos shrugged, gesturing for him to sit on the edge of the double mattress near him. He sat himself with a poised grace that few had, setting the blankets onto his lap with a pat. “What’s wrong?”

“You told me to deal with this myself. Well, I’m dealing with it myself,” Aramis grumbled, inching away. Porthos had to envy the way Athos kept his face as calm as ever. 

“You know we didn’t mean this, Aramis,” Athos stated, speaking out towards the rest of the room. “But you are right, we were wrong to refuse to help you in getting the truth.”

Aramis scoffed, and Porthos winced at the harsh sound from their friend. Aramis, out of all of them including the newer D’Artagnan, had the calmest temper. Where D’Artagnan and Porthos burned hot and Athos froze with his icy demeanor fairly easy, Aramis often coasted the waves of his ire. It rarely lingered for long, and it often never rose to the temperatures the others hit. Aramis usually only got really provoked and scolding when someone hurt those he cared for or committed horrendous acts, and as such Porthos and Athos were not frequently the targets. 

It was an entirely unpleasant experience. 

“Yes, you should have. I always support you, but when it came time to chose between helping me and maybe doubting the Captain, I was left on my own. Even with all the facts staking up, you refused to help me or support me, insisting the Captain was a good man. I never even said he wasn’t. I killed Marsac for him, even after finding out that he was the one who gave out our location,” Aramis spat, and Porthos watched as his knuckles turned white where they gripped the pillow. 

“I just wanted to know the truth and get some justice for my brothers,” It was added mournfully, a soft croon that broke Porthos’s heart for his friend. He looked to Athos, seeing the same grief in his eyes that he felt in his heart. 

They had really messed up.

Porthos wiggled closer cautiously, his leg pressing against Aramis’s curled back. “We’re sorry, brother. You’re right, it wasn’t right of us to turn away. Even if it was Marsac who had brought us most of the clues. I didn’t trust him. Especially not over the Captain, and that ended up hurting you.”

“Well he is dead now, so I guess you can drink in celebration,” Aramis hissed.

Athos scooted back onto the mattress, reaching out to grip Aramis’s ankle with one hand. “I won’t say we grieve his death, Aramis. He was a deserter who left you alone in a forest to die, and we cannot forgive that. But we are sorry for your loss,” Athos muttered, his thumb rolling to gently massage the sensitive flesh. 

They sat there together, listening to the rain as they waited for Aramis to say something. Porthos was just considering asking if they should move his bed back where it belonged so Aramis could sleep by himself for the night when he felt Aramis’s back hitch against his leg. The shaking spread, and Porthos risked petting Aramis’s hair again as the man began to cry.

“Come to bed. Please,” It sounded more like a question, Aramis’s voice high and scratchy. Neither Porthos nor Athos hesitated though. Porthos slid down until he lay with his chest pressed against Aramis’s back and an arm slung over his waist. Athos awkwardly climbed over them, the mattress dipping under his feet as he made his way to Aramis’s other side. He laid down, letting Aramis tuck his face into his shoulder as he began to flip the extra blankets (and Porthos’s that he had grabbed on his way over) on top of them. 

Quickly, between their body heat and the blankets, Porthos was warm enough that he felt sweat threatening to slick his skin. However, Aramis had relaxed significantly, muscles loosening even as he continued to shake as he cried. Sleep pulled at his consciousness, eyes dry and heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake until Aramis quieted down. 

Occasionally, the warm tips of Athos’s fingers would feather over the side of his face whenever he reached a bit too far as his stroked Aramis’s hair. 

They fell asleep one by one. First Aramis, his breath warm as it whistled over Athos’s collarbone through his shirt followed by Porthos. Athos fell asleep last, staring up at the dark ceiling and thanking Aramis’s God that they hadn’t managed to completely screw everything up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you have any feedback (or anything else to say or comment on), please comment down below! Have a nice day!


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